


lying in the ocean, singing your song

by curiosa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaid, F/M, M/M, One sided relationship, Pining, kind of curtain fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiosa/pseuds/curiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, gripping the porcelain of the sink too tight and thinking of the mess his life has become. Sure, he has two legs and feet now instead of a tail, but he can’t talk to the girl he’s in love with and as a result she barely even knows he exists and he’s somehow found himself living in Derek Hale’s decrepit house, the guy following him around like he’s somehow going to let loose their huge secret, and he’s got three weeks and four days left before the sea witch collects on his deal and he loses everything; the little mermaid never had it this badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lying in the ocean, singing your song

**Author's Note:**

> This got way longer than I anticipated and is a product of watching and obsessing over teen wolf whilst having poor unfortunate souls play too much when I'm driving in my car. In my head it made sense to make a mermaid AU. I have no excuses.

“This way,” Stiles says, pushing at the rock until it slides back easily, leaving just enough of a gap for the three of them to squeeze through and nicely covering his hands in a thin dusting of green algae for his trouble. Pulling his face, he quickly brushes it off, rubbing his palms together and gritting his teeth, pushing himself through the gap and turning back to Scott and Allison, whispering, “Quickly.”

Allison’s the last through, tail flickering with a silver flash as she rounds the corner, teeth white in the darkness as she grins back at the two of them and Stiles can see that they’ve still got their hands wrapped together, Scott’s fingers a painful white where she’s been, and still is clutching at him tightly.

“See, we’re through,” Scott reassures her, rubbing at her wrist with his free hand in order to get her to lighten up on the death grip. Stiles checks one last time that they’ve not been followed or seen by anybody, pushing the rock back into place and leaving behind enough room to snag his fingers around and pull back later, for when they inevitably need to sneak back through.

“And done,” he says, turning around and letting out the breath he’s been holding in ever since Scott came to him with this idea and Stiles foolishly agreed to it wholeheartedly, because it’s one thing to go beyond the wall by himself or with Scott for company, but taking along Allison is a whole other deal, one that’s likely to get them both killed in the process.

“So this is it?” Allison asks, swimming away a little and staring out into the depths of darkness before them. Stiles can only see the curve of her back, the dip of her spine and just below where her scales start to show; the silver-blue of the royal family, her tail catching the minimal light and glittering back at him.

Granted, it isn't much to look at now, the wall blocking out the rays of light and casting everything a gloomy midnight-blue; in fact there’s not even a sign of life as far the eye can see, just a vast amount of free ocean before them.

“It’s amazing,” she says, twisting around and throwing her arms up, fingers reaching out heavenward.

“Well that was… not the reaction I expected.” Stiles blinks, moving away from the wall now that they’re safely past it, as if lingering might send somebody out looking.

“Just wait until we get further out,” Scott adds, his hand skimming past Allison’s arm as he swims past her, “You’ll love it.”

“Then we’d better get going,” she grins, tail flicking the top of his waist as she flashes past him and arcs off through the water, Scott hesitating for the barest of seconds before he gives chase.

“Right,” Stiles says to thin air, “I guess I’ll just follow the two of you then.”

-

For a while they just swim straight, Allison keeping lead as Scott swims circles around her, pointing out schools of fish, the kind you don’t find inside the inner wall, flickering past them in a rainbow of colours like an underwater kaleidoscope; skittish gobies that flitter away as soon as they’re spotted and the octopus that mind their own business, cramming themselves as fast as possible into the smallest of nooks; cuttlefish that shy away at their boisterous movements, flickering colour to colour in order to camouflage their skin.

Under Stiles’ instructions they start to swim up, moving through caves where the current pushes at them and they have to curve just right around tight corners in order to not plough headfirst into jagged rock, far enough up that eventually the kelp forests start to surface just off in the distance, a couple of minutes swim away if they want. Stiles can see a couple of harbour seals swimming through the nearest kelp in sight, rooting around in some sea fans and scaring out a school of hiding fish. It shows him just how far out they’ve swum, how close they are to the surface, and if he closes his eyes he can practically feel the sun, hot and glorious, warming his skin.

“Is this as far as you’ve ever swum out?” Allison asks, her voice awestruck as she watches the seals chase the fish round in swirling arcs and loops, the bigger of the two catching a fish and rolling around on its side, jaws gnashing.

“I’ve gone further.” Stiles says as Scott shakes his head, eyes widening, probably trying to communicate that he doesn’t want Allison getting any risky ideas, even if personally, Stiles thinks she does pretty well handling herself, and all he’s really doing is not dropping Scott in it.

Surprisingly though she shivers, turning her face up as if she can see everything clearly up top even from down here. Her voice lowering when she says, “Have you ever seen anything?”

Scott curls himself around her. “We’ve seen a few boats, and a couple of larger ones.”

“Ships,” Stiles adds, tail flicking up the sand on the seabed. “And there was the time we almost swam right into a group of divers.” Which had been way too much of a close one, too occupied with the swirls of water on the surface to notice the sudden swarm of humans coming up right in front of his face, thankfully Scott had been on the ball, hand clamping down around his wrist and dragging him back behind a couple of kelp fronds, the divers too distracted by some passing black sea bass to notice them. Giving them enough time to swim off, hearts beating so fast inside their chests that Stiles had been convinced his ribs would cave in at any moment.

“It’s the craziest thing,” Scott laughs, holding his hand up and covering his mouth. “They have these huge masks on their faces, like they think the water is poisonous or something.”

“I think it helps them to breathe,” Stiles shrugs and Allison tilts her head, clearly interested.

They swim a little closer to the kelp forest, just inside of the first few strands, enough of a thrill for a first timer like Allison and still giving them plenty of time to make a quick getaway if need be. Scott and Allison mostly wind around each other, completely lost in each other’s gaze that it’s actually kind of sickening, and as it turns out there’s only so much lip smacking you can listen to coming from your best friend before you start to go stir crazy. It’s about the time that Scott’s hands skim the line of scales that curve around Allison’s belly button and rise up to cover her breasts that Stiles makes his excuses and flees.

Allison has the decency to throw him a worried look as he drifts off through the forest, red tail skimming past blades of kelp as he promises to be back within the hour, making a careful point of checking the sun’s track across the seas top, the layout of its shadow.

It’s not the first time he’s tracked his way through the forest on his own and he actually considers himself quite good at it - Scott’s been a couple of times but Stiles kind of considers it his own thing -being careful not to stay too long in one single spot or the points where the kelp thins out and the most light filters through, making it more dangerous and likely to be spotted from the surface.

Nearer the shore there’s a group of sea lions playing about, rising up to the surface, their faces bobbing out of the water before they twist, twirling down and snorting out lines of thick bubbles at each other. When Stiles swims past a few come up to greet him, curious, snouts pushing at the span of his shoulder blades, whiskers tickling his skin. There’s a point just about a mile away that’s usually unoccupied and quiet from the constant whir of boat engines, it harbours a group of noisy sea lions on some rock outcroppings; a strip of beach that if Stiles times just right he can get away with sightseeing and remain invisible, or at the very least mistaken for a bit of late and glaring sun in your eye, a quick blink it's a sea lion, all in one.

When he reaches his usual rock, Stiles goes through the motions, eyes tracking the waters movement all around, the tides following their usual current, undisturbed, as he lets himself drift up and up, head breaking the surface as the wind blows cool and sharp across his forehead, the taint of salt thick in the air. Coast clear, he gives a quick burst of his tail, pushing him further out into the open air and giving him enough leverage to claw his hands tight into the rock, fingers digging hard into its natural weathered handholds. A sea lion beside him startles, honking loudly right into his right ear and sniffing haughtily as he pushes at its side, nudging it to shut up. The hardest part is hauling his lower half out of the water, bracing his elbows and pushing up, flicking with his tail and twisting and snarling as he catches it on a particularly jagged piece of rock.

Once he’s up it’s worth all the hassle, spreading himself out flat across the rock so that his chest starts to dry off in the sun, beads of cool water dripping down his stomach. The wind’s still sharp as it blows across his skin and scales, playfully twisting through his hair and drying that too, sharpening his senses like a sharp slap. It’s a bitter enough blast at first that he shivers, but Stiles knows from experience that after a good ten minutes or so he’ll be dry enough for the air to feel balmy, making his eyes feel heavy, the sun turning his skin a soft pink, sun kissed hue.

“Prada!”

Stiles blinks his eyes wide open, heart beating heavy out of his chest. In fright he presses himself as close to the rock as physically possible without needing the effort of moving and risking getting caught. There’s a sharp bark in response to the shout, the sound of the waves being disturbed as the dog makes sharp yapping noises that sound harsh to his ears, its small feet treading back out of the water as Stiles turns his head to get a better look.

“Prada, no!”

His breath catches like there’s a net wrapping around his lungs, holding everything inside of him too tight. He knows that voice, knows it like the back of his hand or the secret rocks that lead to the unexplored pathways out of their home, and if he lies to himself he can pretend that he doesn’t come here almost every day just to see her. That he doesn’t risk his life and the wrath of his Dad just to see Lydia, even her name like one of the songs the sea whispers at night, soft as the foam that lies on top of the cresting waves.

The dog starts to leap up at the girl, tiny wet paws soaking the hemline of her dress as she twirls around in a circle trying to get it to stop, rivulets of water running down over the bump of her knees and the smooth curve of her legs. Her laughter ringing out like an echo, bright and luminescent, carrying over the waves and the wind and straight in to his blood stream where it arcs out and moves through every part of his body, right from the tips of his fingers through to the flukes of his tail.

He moves so that he’s closer, fingers curling over the lip of rock that hides him from sight, the sea lion grumbling half heartedly at having to share more of his space as Stiles pushes and ignores him, pulling himself up higher to see everything he can. It’s cruel, he thinks, how fate can shove such a perfect being into his life; a strawberry blonde haired vision that he can only ever watch from afar, forever doomed to keep his distance or destroy his entire life and everyone that surrounds him.

He slips, elbowing the sea lion so that it rolls over and snaps back at him, barking continuously, riled up. “Sorry,” he mouths, holding his hands up in defence, fingers up to his lips and trying to get the thing to shut up quickly.

The dog has already taken notice though, bounding away from Lydia to run leaping headfirst into the sea, yapping loudly in Stiles’ and the sea lions direction. Lydia quickly follows, wading out until the first few waves are lapping at her ankles, one slim hand hovering before her eyes in order to stare out and avoid the last glints of the waning sun. “Hello?” She shouts, her free hand coming up and waving in his direction.

Stiles feels his heart stop, frozen for one long continuous second as his Dad’s speeches fill his head distractedly, how you never go up to the surface, you never risk getting caught. Ever.

He flips over, hands braced ready to jump, the rock digging into his back a stark reminder that he shouldn’t be here, not on dry land, this close to being discovered.

“Are you alright?”

He inches his head lower. He could dive right now into the sea, disappear with the flick of his tail and never set foot back on this rock ever again.

He could do. He should do. He knows that, so why isn’t he moving?

Stiles cranes his neck, twisting his head so that he can make out the sight of Lydia pushing and hurrying the dog back towards shore even as she turns and walks further into it, dress now billowing around her waist like the floating body of a jellyfish. “Is everything okay?” Her voice sounds genuinely worried, and why wouldn’t it? As far as she’s concerned he’s some scared kid that’s swum out too far or got pulled out by the current, stuck on this rock until someone wonderful takes notice and rescues him.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” she continues, tentatively wading closer to him, even as the tides insist she goes back. “Do you need some help? I can, um, call the coastguard.”

Stiles closes his eyes, counting to five under his breath before he slips his tail into the lapping waves and pushes himself off quickly, Lydia’s face hidden behind the fall of her hair caught in the wind, covering her face until only the barest curve of her jaw line is visible.

He catches his hip on a sharp piece of weathered bedrock as he falls, wincing as pain lances up through his tail, the water only working so far to soothe the sting of it, but Stiles is given no choice but to push deeper, a thin trail of blood following in his wake. 

He swims further down, heart beating so fast at almost being caught that he can feel it pulsing and reverberating strong throughout his whole body, like every single nerve ending is on edge and aware, making him feel jittery and light headed as he swims back into the camouflage safety of the kelp forest.

He imagines he hears the faint echoing call of Lydia shouting for him to wait, her confused expression when he doesn’t resurface. As if maybe she imagined the whole thing, and he wonders how long it’ll take her dress to dry later as she walks her dog back home, sand still sticking to the bare soles of her feet.

Once far enough away he starts to relax again, which is when his hip starts to throb, beating out a steady staccato beat as he stops, checking, considering how close he is to the surface, that he’s carefully concealed and hidden aware by the kelps softly flowing blades. His fingers scrape over the cut, scales coming away with the brush of his fingers; it’s nothing serious, just a snag, a couple of scales gone, rubbed away raw against the rock, but it still stings and bleeds like mad, the way silly small cuts seem to at times, as if they’re a much bigger deal than they make themselves out to be.

With the day moving on it’s cooler in the ocean now, later than Stiles had planned to be out thanks to falling asleep, and as the sun begins to move over, the moon makes itself known in the darkening sky, cold light reaching down to kiss the seabed. A couple of rays begin to idle past searching for food, their movements fluid as if the ocean bends around their skin. As schools of fish bed down for the night in the darkest crevices of rock, safely hiding away from the bigger predators. In the dark it’s harder to see where you’re going, clear water that suddenly gives way to a twisting grove of kelp, and it’s probably because he’s alone and he’s already had one scare too many for the day, plus the fact that it’s late, and he knows that just a little way away Scott and Allison are waiting, that he starts to feel the creeping beginnings of panic, fluttering underneath his ribcage, right beneath his heart.

They’re just there, he thinks, right on the outskirts of this forest. He’s fine, not lost, and he can totally find his way back somehow; it’s just the unsettling feeling from almost being caught that’s got him feeling a tad unsure of everything. So why does he feel like he’s swimming in circles and getting nowhere fast?

There’s a dark patch up just ahead and Stiles blinks as something shifts out of the corner of his eye, the water swirling as sand kicks up from the sea bed, churning up muck and turning everything in front of him into a whirlwind of grit that the bottom feeders would have a field day with.

“Scott?” He calls out, quiet and timid, coughing, like he’s got a lump caught in his throat.

Even from this distance he can tell that there’s something not quite right about the silence that suddenly surrounds him, the way that the kelp seems to disappear into the inky darkness, almost like its being sucked in to its depths, disintegrating everything it touches; the way even the smallest of fish have disappeared from sight. “Allison?” he whispers, soft and unsure, swimming back a step as what looks like a pair of glowing red eyes light up in the pitch black, staring.

He thinks maybe he’s seeing things, working himself up into a state, lost and imagining his worst nightmares: a great white sniffing the blood trail left by his tail, and then worse, his Mother’s voice in the back of his head as she’d tucked him in at night, warning jokingly not to let the wolf-sharks bite.

“Not real,” he mumbles, but the darkness refuses to listen.

It’s just a child’s tale, he tells himself, not seeing what looks like the tall shadow of a man that can’t possibly be Scott or Allison; it’s too big, what little he can make out of the tail definitely not reflecting the standard scales he’s used to seeing, but he’s not seeing any of that, he’s really not seeing it.

“Gone the wrong way,” he mutters, back tracking, water feeling like it’s pushing against his skin, working to keep him in place, wanting him to stay frozen to the spot, and he is, completely, hypnotised almost by the ethereal glow of red eyes that Stiles knows doesn’t belong to any normal sea creature he’s familiar with.

Wolf-shark, his mind whispers and Stiles forgets how to breathe, unable to focus.

The shadow moves and Stiles gets a hold of himself, twisting away and forcing his body to move, arms out straight, fingers wide as a starfish as he pushes through the depths, getting lost and tangled in strands of kelp, scratched up as it wraps around him and Stiles pulls and rips himself free, fingers ripping at his own skin just so he can keep going.

“Stiles?”

He barrels headfirst into Scott, limbs tangling as his tail flips over his head and they go careening to the ocean floor, landing together awkwardly in a heap as Allison swims over to their side concerned, her hair a dark waterfall flowing down over her slim shoulders.

“Are you okay? Stiles?”

He looks up, heart still racing, and notices that they’re just on the outskirts of the kelp forest, a strand of one wrapped twice around his right wrist. He picks it off, Scott disentangling himself at the same time and pushing up so that he’s staring wide eyed at Stiles, like maybe his friend’s gone crazy; a cautious hand flat out and waiting as he hovers just above the sea bed.

“Fine,” he says, answering Allison’s question, rubbing his hands over his face and back through his hair as if checking he’s still one whole functioning body.

“Fine, honestly.” He reassures as a pinprick of embarrassment starts to slide down his body. There’s no sign of anything sinister, just Scott and Allison; the two of them throwing each other looks above his head as if he isn’t aware of their silent communication.

He sits down, curving his tail up so that he can wrap his arms around it and try to settle the uneasy twist that curls through his stomach to his gut. He feels silly now, even if the traces of fear still haven’t left his skin. Covering his face and moaning.

Allison moves in closer, her eyes sharp and anxious, hands fluttering at her side as she comes to land beside him, tucking one arm safe up against his own. Close up he can see the marks of red that Scott’s left across her jaw line, her lips still slightly swollen and startlingly red.

“I’m fine,” he insists and thinks how easy it would be to say something different, opens his mouth and says, “Look, it’s late, we should be getting back.”

Allison throws Scott a pointed look and they share a moment’s conversation as Stiles sits and waits, used to their strange hive mind from covering for their dates so often, eventually Scott shrugs as Allison sighs and seemingly admits defeat against him.

“It is getting late,” Scott says. Picking the conversation back up where it left off and throwing a quick look up towards the sky above them. “We’d better be getting back before someone notices.” And for a second Stiles thinks that'll be the end of it, that he’s gotten away with it, until Scott throws him a last look that he knows to mean they’ll talk later, curling his hand around Allison’s open palm and pulling her along.

By the time they get back to the wall its dark enough to afford them cover but also way later than any of them said they’d be out. Scott’s curled up behind Allison, his arms wrapped loose around her waist, engulfing her like a comma as she smiles and tilts her head back to meet him. Stiles rolls his eyes as the familiar noises of them kissing drifts closer and his fingers skitter over the slick rock, looking for the piece he’d left purposefully askew to pull back earlier.

His fingers snag, “Got it,” and he pulls, slowly, rock grinding against rock until there’s a big enough crack for the three of them to slip back through. It takes about five seconds for him to adjust to the change in lighting, the city’s lights pulsating even from here, almost blinding when used to just the moons dim glow. It’s the five seconds that cost him.

“Oh.”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder and Stiles feels ice spread quickly through his stomach, thick dread filling his gut at the fact that they’ve been caught. He manages a quick wordless, shocked look, seeing the guilt heavy on Allison as she’s lead away before the two of them, her shoulders hunched over tightly as if she’s already given in; the dread on Scott’s face as he and Stiles are pushed forward, made to follow closely behind.

Stiles breathes in deep, trying to keep calm; his Dad’s going to kill him, and even if he doesn’t, Allison’s family certainly will.

-

There’s really only one word to describe Allison’s Mother and that’s intimidating, intimidating as all hell.

Victoria Argent stands staring at the three of them, arms tightly crossed against her chest, a look on her face that’s akin to someone imagining every possible way in which to kill someone, nastily, and Stiles can only be grateful that she seems to be levelling the most deadliest of looks directly at Scott and not himself.

Allison, for her part does her best to keep her distance, staring at the marble flooring as if she’s never seen it before in her life, the small distasteful twist to her lips promising an argument later that’s brewing like the worst possible sea storm coming in from the east.

The door bangs open and Chris Argent walks in, face full of anger and quietly seething but plainly clear rage.

“Does someone want to explain?” He demands, voice quiet enough that it makes Stiles have to lean in just to hear him. “Well?”

The three of them spare each other quick glances, Allison giving the tiniest shake of her head before Scott does something stupid like decides to open his mouth and speak up.

Chris eyes them all individually and Stiles feels his skin start to itch.

“You are lucky,” he says, levelling his gaze at Allison. “That your Grandfather didn’t hear about this before I did.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong.” Allison says, rising up, hands clenched into tight fists, ready to fight her way out of this.

“You didn’t do anything wrong?” Her father scoffs, voice rising, “There are rules Allison, a code to follow. How many times do we have to go over this? The wall is there for your protection.”

“I know,” she answers, eyes blinking closed, the fight seeping out of her.

“How far did you go?” He stares at each of them in turn. “Please tell me you didn’t go up to the surface?”

“No!” Scott and Allison both shout, Stiles a second too late, and he doesn’t miss the concerned look that Scott throws him as Stiles refuses to meet his face.

“We just explored the kelp forest,” Scott says, turning back to face Chris as Allison twists her head away, wincing.

“ _Just_ the kelp forest?” Chris rounds on him as Scott automatically takes a step back. “Am I supposed to be grateful two _commoners_ took my daughter out beyond the wall and _only_ to the kelp forest? Do you know how many humans dive out there?” He turns back to eye Allison and Stiles. “Do you know how lucky you are not to get caught? What else could have happened out there to the three of you?”

Stiles swallows, nodding his head and thinking of a pair of red eyes glowing in the darkness. “It won’t happen again, sir, we’re really sorry.”

“Yeah,” Scott chimes in, jaw snapping shut as Chris Argent’s eyes narrow round on him.

“Allison, go to your room.”

Allison looks ready to argue, mouth opening wide and then snapping shut as her Mother ushers her out of the room, fingers a sharp clasp around her elbow; leaving them with only the quickest flash of her silver tail and desperate mouthed words of sorry before the door shuts closed on them darkly.

“There are a lot more dangers than just the humans out there,” Chris says, voice back to the quietly seething rage tone as he paces in front of them both, “And I’ll be just one more danger if I ever catch either of you near my daughter again.”

“Yes sir,” Stiles stutters, elbowing Scott once in the side so he concurs with a half hearted murmur a couple of seconds later.

The door opens once again, this time letting in their parents: Scott’s Mother with her lips pressed into a tight, thin line as she steadfastly walks towards her son, anything but happy, and Stiles’ Dad, looking extremely pale, nodding and thanking Chris Argent as he shakes his hand once before he leaves the room; the heavy silence that fills it palatable as Stiles waits for somebody to break it.

“So,” he says, never having been good with a heavy silence, trying to work in nonchalant and looking up hopefully at his Dad.

“You idiots,” goes Scott’s Mom, swiping at Scott’s shoulder even as he tries to roll it away out of her reach, like it’ll help any. Her face twisting into a look that’s pinched and confused, as if she can’t quite figure out whether she wants to strike him again or hug him.

“What on earth possessed you to do this?” she asks, not even pausing for a beat for either of them to answer, “Do you know how much trouble you could have been in, no, are in. There are serious consequences. You’re grounded,” she goes, one hand hugging her waist as the other hand needles her forehead, like she’s trying to stop an oncoming headache. “No visitors,” she says, even as Scott eyeballs Stiles and tries to protest. “No,” she says, voice loud enough that it echoes around the room ringing off the cold marble. “Grounded.” And with that she points at the door, signalling the conversation over as Scott sulks towards it, no doubt hoping for one last glimpse of Allison before he leaves the palace grounds.

Before Melissa leaves she places a hand on Stiles’ Dad’s shoulder, the two of them exchanging a look as his Dad slowly shakes his head. What happens then is an hour of silence, unbearable silence as the two of them make their way home together.

Once their inside, Stiles turns around to face his Dad, unable to bear it any longer.

“Okay, aren’t you going to shout?” he asks, his Dad’s face twitching as he faces him, skin pale and tired, looking a good ten years older than he should do.

His Dad sighs, rubbing one weary hand through his hair, his eyes a shade paler than normal, a watery tired, marbled blue, grey. “And what would you like me to say?”

That stops Stiles in his place, lips rounding ready to argue but his mind frozen with no words to say. He rubs his fingers in his eyes, buying him a second to think. “I’m sorry, okay; I know we shouldn’t have gone beyond the wall, especially not with Allison. It was stupid.”

“Stupid?” His Dad asks, suddenly standing taller than before. “It was irresponsible; stupid doesn’t even begin to cover it. Do you know what I’ve just had to go through from the palace? Well? I’m the one in charge of security of the entire city. What do you think it looks like when it’s my kid that blatantly breaks the rules in front of me?”

“I didn’t mean for-” he trails off and closes his eyes, the full extent of everything he’s just risked falling into place. Slowly, he shakes his head, but his Dad hasn’t finished.

“I had to have a lecture thrown at me because my kid, my own flesh and blood, risked all of our kind for what? Hmm? A cheap thrill? A way to impress the princess?”

“No,” says Stiles, voice failing. He’d never meant to hurt his Dad, Allison, Scott; any of them.

“Then what, Stiles? Because I don’t understand. You don’t go beyond the wall, you know that. The surface is too close.”

Stiles looks away. You don’t go beyond the wall; he knows that, it’s been hammered into his head before he can even remember, but the thing is, he’s been up there, he’s seen what there is to see, felt the sun heat his skin on a warm day, watched the humans, seen for himself how they’re not some blood thirsty group of two legged savages like their kind always makes out. He straightens his back, shaking his head.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been to the surface.” His Dad groans and when Stiles doesn’t answer, grits his teeth. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles protests.

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No, they’re not all bad-”

“And how do you know?”

“There’s a girl-” He starts to say before:

“A girl? A human? You risk my job,” He shakes his head, “Your life, for a human?”

“No!” He shouts, fingers digging into his skull. The space between them isn’t far, an arm’s length away at most, and yet Stiles has never felt as far away from his Dad than in this moment. He won’t even listen, just keeps twisting his words on him. There’s no turning back though, no way to make him understand. He can see it in the way his Dad’s face gets angry, eyes now the colour of a storm as his face clouds red, the way his whole body shakes like he’s barely keeping it together.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, quiet and pleading, the words barely making it out of his mouth.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” He says, “Not this time.” He licks his lips, hands gripping Stiles’ shoulders until he feels like his Dad’s trying to pull him apart. “You don’t go near that wall again,” he demands and Stiles nods, wincing as his fingers dig in, hard points to the softest parts of his skin. “You never go to the surface again, you hear me?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, even as his Dad shakes him, eyes a cool, steel blue and focused. Instead he thinks about what agreeing to this means losing: Lydia’s laughter ringing through his head, hair tumbling around her shoulders, curling in loops across her chest as she runs, her muscled legs a warm golden tan, the freckles that dot across her skin, peppering her nose and cheekbones. “But,” he says, voice soft, not willing to let this one thing, this one girl; whether human or not, go, because when he thinks about that all he’s left with is a crippling loneliness.

His Dad sighs, visibly wilting, hands sliding down Stiles’ arms. “What do you think will happen? You think this girl will what, wake up one day and believe she’s in love with you? You don’t belong in her world, Stiles, and you never will do.” He laughs then, bitter, and Stiles feels something sharp break inside of him, his insides splintering.

His Dad turns away and Stiles barely keeps himself afloat. “What would your Mother say,” he whispers and Stiles feels his breath catch in his throat. They never talk about her. It’s an unspoken rule. Just the sound of her name making his Dad visibly wilt and stagger.

“I don’t know,” he says, because that’s the honest truth.

His Dad turns back once blinking, like he’s forgotten Stiles is even in the room, or didn’t expect him to hear him and suddenly Stiles feels embarrassed, like he’s stepped in on a moment he was never supposed to see.

“She’d be disappointed,” he says, each word ringing out crystal clear and hitting him straight in the chest like a bullet, and what follows feels like an entire lifetime of the worst kind of silence.

“Right,” Stiles says, or thinks he does, all he can hear is a loud buzzing noise pulsing through his ears, his Dad with his back towards him, refusing to look him in the face.

He should go to his room, he knows this, but what happens is he swims right past it and out of his house, wanting to be near nothing that reminds him of home or his Dad or worse.

He thinks about talking to Scott, at least going over there and letting his best friend take his mind off all this, but then Stiles remembers that he’s banned; Scott’s home and anywhere near him in the slightest, all of it currently off limits; which is all his fault too. Stupid stupid stupid.

So he swims, coasting along the night streets, keeping close to the shadows when he sees a patrol, no doubt all aware of what a close call he’s given his Dad, how he put his job in jeopardy, and wow wouldn’t that be just the piece that makes everything topple, getting dragged back red faced to his Dad again.

He’s milling around the outskirts when once again everything gets quiet, the waters suddenly running cold. He runs a hand against the wall, grit and algae sliding out of place, falling down into the depths below and coating his fingers.

“Poor thing,” somebody says and Stiles jumps, curling back against the wall, feeling the rocks once again dig into the skin of his back. He catches sight of blonde curls flowing through the water, a pair of warm, sleepy brown eyes just as suddenly in his face.

“Woah,” he says, her eyes flashing golden as a boy comes up to join her, slipping in next to the girl’s right and keeping Stiles cornered in his place.

“You don’t look very happy,” the boy pouts, seemingly caring more about picking at his cuticles than caring about Stiles’ mood and downturned face.

“So very unhappy,” the girl chimes in, smiling up at the boy as her hand comes up, her nails as sharp as a dagger as they dig hard into the crevice right next to Stiles’ face; rock shatters at the impact, crumbling and falling down onto Stiles’ shoulder as he flinches. He tries to push off but the boy pushes him back, one hand clamping down on his collarbone, the same sharp, unnatural nails digging needle sharp into his skin.

Wolf-shark, Stiles thinks, mind racing.

“I don’t want any trouble,” He says, heart beating like a thunder dome inside his chest.

The two look at each other, sly smiles taking over their faces as the girl speaks, voice slow like dripping honey, “That’s funny because I heard you were already in a little over your head.” Throwing back her neck to let out a sharp laugh. The movement makes his skin crawl, filling out in goosebumps all over.

“Daddy’s not too pleased, right?” The boy goes and Stiles feels his face flare red, watching as he swims back a little so that Stiles can get his first view of their tails, definitely not the usual scales that he’s used to, and now that he thinks about it he doesn’t remember seeing either of them in the city ever, not in their school, not that there aren’t often visitors from other places, outside the wall, further out and deeper in the ocean.  It’s their tails though which show the biggest difference: a dark, ashen grey, almost shark like in appearance, following the same pattern of merpeople but looking rougher to the touch, much more streamlined in the water, and he can’t help but wonder if he did try to run, just how long it would take them to catch him up?

That’s before the girl smiles though, teeth elongated to sharp points, catching and pulling at her bottom lip. She moves in, close to his ear. “We know someone who can help you.”

“If,” the boy says, “You’re willing to take a chance.”

“A chance?” Stiles repeats, because if there’s one thing he’ll never be cured of it’s his curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Ah,” the girl says, swimming around Stiles, her arms curving around his waist before moving away to slide up closer to her strange hybrid twin and curling up close to him. “He’ll answer all of your questions. You just have to follow us.” She slinks away, the boy following her as Stiles counts out the pros and cons in his head.

Unsurprisingly, the cons list is winning out, the thought of following two complete strangers who seem just that little bit twisted and violent, definitely violent - the red claw marks lay proof to that on his chest - not appealing in the slightest until, “That girl you like,” goes the boy, “the human? What if you could talk to her, face to face?" Stiles feels his heart thump. "Peter can make that happen, if you’ll give him a chance.”

Which is how Stiles finds himself swimming after them, only pausing once, briefly, _disappointment disappointment disappointment,_ as he slips past the wall for the second time that day, nails scraping against the rock as he steadfastly tries to get the image of his Dad’s face and _those_ words out of his head.

-

There’s a rule that Stiles has followed ever since he can remember, back when his Mom used to tuck him in safe at night, when his worst fear would be the dark corner of his room, the part where even the shadows seemed to be swallowed and all of his worst fears attempted to crawl and claw their way out. He’d lie there in bed, eyes squeezed tight until he could bare it no longer, knowing that if he went anywhere near it, it’d be the last step he’d ever take. It’s silly now really, because years later that corner of his room is filled with clutter, and in no way does it compare to this, whatever this thick layer of darkness is before him.

Isaac and Erica swim through, their bodies gliding into the syrupy darkness and swallowing them whole, but Stiles holds back a beat, blinking, tail swishing lightly through the sand, unsure. The darkness seems to bleed through the water and it’s as if there’s a tainted edge to this whole place, as if something tells him he doesn’t belong here, the darkness just one warning that he’s in over his head, even the bones beneath his skin protesting as he moves forward.

There’s no one to stop him though, not this time, no one to hold him back.

For what feels like an entire minute, Stiles swims through pitch black, no sign of Isaac or Erica, as he tries to swim straight, keeping all moving body parts away from the tunnels walls just in case. Eventually there are lights in the distance, the tiniest of cracks seeping with molten hot lava to light the way into what appears to be a central room.

“Um, hello?” Stiles croaks, cringing as his voice deserts him and cracks. “Uh, Peter?”

There’s movement in the shadows and Stiles fully expects Isaac or Erica to manifest until he catches what appears to be a taller shadow, longer limbs shifting into the light, the briefest flash of what looks like a blood red gaze, before it’s gone, shifting back into a colour he can’t quite pick out from this distance.

“Stiles, I presume?” Says the stranger and Stiles nods, clearing his throat to say, “Yes. You're Peter?”

The man nods drifting forward and Stiles can see him clearly now, a smart, prepared appearance, hair slicked back off his face, eyes small and flat; a dark blue that reminds Stiles of a hunting predator, almost like a great white. Not that Stiles has ever come face to face with one, but he knows enough to understand about how they use calculated movements, the predator carefully assessing its prey before it rounds in on them, almost unsuspecting until they bite. He’s got the same tail as the other two, the same lack of scales, but his a different shade entirely, a colour that seems to shift with the darkness, almost making the bottom half of his body blend in with the dark water that surrounds him, making him difficult to place if he moves too quickly, so Stiles finds himself concentrating on his face.

“Now, should we get straight down to business? You’re here for a deal, yes?”

The question makes him lose his breath, licking his lips as he goes, “No, wait,” stuttering, his teeth catching on the words as they slip past his lips. “Wait…what?” Stiles closes his eyes, wincing, because really, can he be any more eloquent or nervous? His whole body feels like it’s shaking, right down to his fin.

The man rolls his eyes, “Let’s see if I’ve got this right? This girl up top, you like her, right?” Stiles nods, the movement instinctive because he feels numb, like his head isn’t working, limbs moving independently without a single thought. “And the way you are now,” He gestures to Stiles, pausing longer at his tail in particular, red scales glinting like golden fire in the lava light, catching the warm beam in the cracks of the walls. He purses his lips. “Well it doesn’t really add up to a successful relationship now, does it?”

Peter cocks his head and Stiles swallows, looking down at the floor feeling small and lost in the wide empty cavern, a little stupid. He shouldn’t be here, he thinks, his Dad has probably noticed by now that he’s missing from the house, out on the search for his missing son, fear taking over any of that lingering, hard anger. Maybe…

“I can help you,” says Peter, suddenly right next to his face, breath hot against his ear as he continues to speak. “A deal. I give you something you want and in return, you,” he blinks, eyes cold and lifeless, “Give me something I need.”

“Like what?” Stiles asks, licking his lower lip. It’s too dry in the cave, the heat seeping all the oxygen out of the room until he feels like he can’t breathe, it’s so hot.

“So eager, all in good time,” he places his hands down on Stiles’ shoulders, pressing down until his tail is curled and he's sitting. “Now this girl, I bet she’s a real keeper?”

Stiles relaxes a little, the knot in his stomach not quite as tight as he thinks of Lydia when she smiles really wide, showing off the whites of her teeth.

“Now imagine,” says Peter, keeping one hand on Stiles as the other splays out wide next to the side of his head. “You and her, just the two of you, walking along hand in hand on the beach.”

“But that’s impossible,” Stiles counters, twisting around, eyes wide. You can’t mix two kinds, he thinks, it’s just not possible.

“My dear boy, nothing is impossible, not with a little help and some magic.” He grins then and Stiles can’t help but think of sharks teeth. “I can make you a human, if you want.”

“What?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “A human; two legs, two feet, more skin.” He curls one arm around Stiles’ shoulders, crushing him to his skin, “Come on now, keep up with me.”

“But I can’t become a human-”

“Why? Because you’d leave everything here behind, yada, yada, sure, but think of your girl, what it must feel like to touch her skin, wrap your fingers in her hair.”

“I said I wouldn’t go back to the surface.”

Peter tuts, swimming round to face Stiles head on, “Did you though? Did you really?”

He twists, following Peter around. “Well-” No, strictly speaking he didn’t. The conversation sort of got side tracked and Stiles really doesn’t want to spend the next few moments re-living it all in his head.

“You could prove him wrong, you know.” Peter whispers. “These humans, they’re not all that bad, not really, but then _you_ already know that, right?” Stiles opens his mouth, alarmed and Peter laughs, the sound of it loud, echoing, and reverberating from all corners to sound in his head.

“You think the Argent’s are the only ones who watch the seas?” He spits the name out and for just a split second his eyes flash darkly, that same vivid red, a second again and he’s back to his cold, charming self, smoothing his hair back and regaining his composure. “You know, I used to obey all the rules too,” Peter says, sliding around, tail fin catching Stiles’ own. “It got me nowhere, banished. I lost everyone I loved, the woman I cared about most in the world, my whole family.” His tone’s getting darker, richer with pain and self righteous anger. “I don’t offer this to just anybody, Stiles, but I could so easily give it to somebody else, somebody who actually _wants_ it.”

“No,” Stiles shouts and grimaces because now the word is out there, no taking it back, but without thinking about it he realises he means it; that he wants the chance to be a human, to see Lydia face to face. He wants the chance to get out there, walking around on his own two feet and his Dad, well his Dad could do better off without him, right?

Peter smiles, lips too tight as he grabs a hold of Stiles’ wrist. “Then all that’s left to do is settle on the price.”

“The price, right.” Stiles mutters, suddenly unsure of everything.

“Right,” says Peter. “I give you two legs,” he holds up his hand, loosely curled in a fist except for one single finger outstretched, “for one month, ah,” he says as Stiles tries to interrupt. “You work your magic on this girl, charm her, woo her and buy her flowers, whatever, and in that time you get her to return your love.” He’s still got his hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, pulling him along as he goes. “We’re talking the true kind here, not knocked up and divorced within five months, okay, and in return you give me your voice.”

“My voice?” Stiles asks, “But then how am I supposed to tell her-”

“Well you can’t just tell her, not with your voice, that’d be cheating now, wouldn’t it?”

“What?”

Peter lets go of his arm, hand reaching up to cradle his own face. “You’re telling me they don’t even teach you about the charm your voice holds to a human? The appeal? What are the schools teaching these days?” He shakes his head.

“You want my voice?”

“Did you know a merman or mermaid’s voice is hypnotic when used in the right way? Why do you think the two worlds are kept separate?” At Stiles’ look of confusion, Peter carries on: “What you think they’d all want to harpoon you on sight? Don’t think it isn’t just as risky for their side. All those old tales of humans being lured to their death, drowned in the middle of something as innocent as a kiss?” He shrugs. “Though if you’re going to pick a way to go, I suppose...”

Stiles scratches his fingers over his head, roughing up his hair again. “You’ll be fine, of course, pretty little face like that, all that vulnerability, girls love it when a man listens, just think of it as that now you’ll have no choice.” He grins and continues, “Anyway, you do that and life’s fantastic, you and your girl go off into the sunset, spending the rest of your lives together, great.”

“There’s still another catch,” says Stiles slow, because there always is one.

“Ah,” says Peter, tone trying to sound sympathetic, even if there’s anything but sympathy written on his face. “The catch is you mess things up and that’s it. End game. If she doesn’t love you by the end of the month, your soul,” he flares his hand, rolling back his eyes until Stiles can only see the whites, “whatever it is the kids call it these days, belongs to me.”

Stiles drifts back a step, overwhelmed, but Peter isn’t giving him any time to think, pressing closer, not giving him any space. “It isn’t hard, Stiles. Spend the rest of your life here, always wondering what if, or take a chance at a new opportunity?”

Either way he loses one half of his life. Because whatever choice he makes there’s a part of him that loses out, not that down here things are going particularly great right now anyway.

“Time’s ticking away, Stiles. Are you in or are you out? You could always go back to your Dad, I suppose, be that disappointment?”

“In,” he says, defiant and quick, before his mind can over think this and tell his mouth to backtrack.

Peter grins, moving forward predatorily fast to grip his hand in his, turning his skin a bone white, the elongated points of his teeth grazing his lower lip.

“Done,” he says and before Stiles can even blink he feels Peter’s free hand cover the sternum of his chest, fingers digging in to the point of burning as they trail higher, up past his ribs, to his neck, over the curl of his adam’s apple, ripping what feels like his heart right out of his chest; except when he opens his mouth to scream, no sound comes out, just bubbles of air, one after the other, drifting away out of his sight.

“Boyd will see you out,” Peter says, turning around as Stiles curls in on himself, feeling what seems like his whole body shake apart, twisting and changing all over. Firm hands grip his upper arms, pulling him away and up when all he wants to do is stay put in his place. Take it back, he wants to scream, trying to get a glimpse of Peter as he’s hauled away, already making it off with his voice, and he desperately tries to mouth out that he takes it back; he doesn’t want this, not like this, like his bones are splintering apart inside him.

“Get him out of here before his need for air kicks in. I suppose it’s only fair to give him a fighting chance.”

-

What Boyd does is bring Stiles up to the surface, leaving him in the middle of nowhere, no land in sight, to drift in place before diving back down underneath; to a depth this new body of his can no longer belong to, even if he could find the energy to try and follow him. His entire body aches as it moves with the waves, barely able to keep afloat as he lets the tide controls his movements, water lapping constantly over his face and the worst of it making him choke and sputter.

This isn’t anything like he imagined. In the beginning against the pain he’d tried kicking his feet, trying to stay afloat desperately, but that had done nothing but churn up the water, his back sinking below the waves as he struggled to stay afloat and breathe. In the end it’d been easier to try and keep still, letting the worst waves crash over him as he desperately tried to hold his breath. His skin tastes like salt now, the sun beating down and drying up his lips.

It seems like it’s been forever when his body starts to sink, limbs tired and sore from the constant activity to even attempt to panic as he’s falling, and it’ll be ironic, he thinks, the first ever merman to go like this, by drowning.

He shuts his eyes as he falls beneath the waves, letting the water pull him under, so that when two arms wrap around his waist and yank him back up, for a second he thinks that he’s dreaming.

“Idiot,” snarls a voice right beside his ear, grabbing and scratching at Stiles’ skin as he tries to adjust his grip. His head’s rolling back of its own accord and in the next second there’s a sharp slap against his face, the same voice, harsh and loud, shouting, “Breathe!”

Stiles starts to cough, his throat and lungs burning as water makes its way back out of his mouth, stiff wracking barks that almost throw him out of the man’s grip as he struggles to keep them both floating.

“Try and stay still,” the voice says, and he kind of wants to roll his eyes because even if Stiles had a choice it’s not like he isn’t trying; spending every second expelling water out of his lungs and trying to get wonderful, precious air back into them.

After a couple of minutes the worst of the coughing stops and he finds it easier to breathe again, eyes feeling heavy as between the constant struggle just to survive and the warm body right behind his back, sleep pulls at him.

He finds himself slowly drifting off, only waking up as the arms holding him up shift, hands grabbing beneath his arms to try and haul him up the beach. Funnily enough it’s surprising how heavy this human form is, the man struggling to lift him up as his heels dig into the wet sand and sink. Stiles absolutely no help as his whole body collapses like a dead weight and refuses to even flinch for him.

“Stay here,” the man says, gruff, like he has a choice and Stiles manages a forlorn nod in return, the barest twitch of his lips. It’s a couple of minutes before he returns, now wearing a shirt that’s clinging to him like a second skin, his feet still bare and the skin there shifting from a stark blue to a warm, golden brown. Stiles wonders if he’s hallucinating. He’s got an arm full of what looks like a spare shirt and trousers, face put upon, like this isn’t the first time he’s kept a stranger afloat in the middle of the sea and dragged him back to dry land to clothe him.

“You should have had more sense than this.” he says, kneeling down and trying to help Stiles at least sit up, sighing as he starts to shiver, eventually giving up and letting him rest against his chest. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.”

And Stiles opens his mouth to argue that he does, he’s beginning to realise that now, thank you; that this wasn’t the best idea of his, but all that comes out is a puff of air and a boatload of frustration. He hasn’t even got the strength to make his hands into fists, just enough control over his own body to keep his head up and sort of focused.

“The tiredness is natural,” he says, as if sensing Stiles’ thoughts. “Your body isn’t used to this human form and being left out at sea didn’t really help you either.” No kidding, he thinks, and lets out what hopefully sounds similar to what should be a bubble of laughter.

It’s cold out, still really early morning but Stiles feels hot, like his skin is too tight, every inch of him sweating. He starts to shake, tiny tremors that make his teeth rattle, the noise too loud inside his own head. A cold hand presses up against his cheek and Stiles feels his eyes sliding closed at how cool it is, leaning into the touch, his whole body exhausted.

“You need to sleep,” the man says, voice surprisingly soft, and all Stiles can do is gape soundlessly back at him like a fish, his mind turning to white fuzz as he thinks that he hasn’t even gotten a chance to look at his new legs yet.

 

 

 


End file.
